


Obliquity

by dracoqueen22



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Fjolly Week 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 06:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: In celebration of Fjolly week, day one.Fjord dreams in opportunities and possibilities. Mollymauk is not so lucky.





	Obliquity

Fjord dreams in opportunities and possibilities. He speaks of a voice who promises him power and riches and glory and so many things.   
  
He tells Molly this, bit by bit, piece by piece, stuttering admissions whispered in the quiet and the dead of night. When no one else can hear or they’re on watch, sitting back to back, peering into the dark.   
  
He can’t hide the excitement in his voice. Or the trepidation. He’s as intrigued as he is terrified, and Molly admires his caution.   
  
It’s a mystery he can’t leave unsolved, and Molly tells him, over and over again, he’ll help Fjord find the answers. If that’s what Fjord wants, then Molly will stay beside him every step of the way.   
  
Molly is not so lucky.   
  
He dreams in snatches of a bloody past. Faces he doesn’t recognize. Unfamiliar voices. His body reacting without him. Flickers of emotions that aren’t his, and cruelties the likes of which he thought only monsters capable.   
  
Monsters like what his body had been.   
  
Molly dreams in fire and madness and blood. He dreams of frigid nights and bonfire mornings, and sometimes, there’s laughter. He can’t tell if it’s pleasant. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care.   
  
That madman is not him. He is not his past. He runs away from his dreams, as much as Fjord chases his.   
  
They are diametrically opposed.   
  
There are a lot of things Molly shouldn’t do. Creep into Fjord’s bed, bury the memories in Fjord’s kisses, lose himself in Fjord’s body, those definitely count. He doesn’t know who he was, and Fjord is trying to figure out who he is, and they are a mess.   
  
Molly does it anyway.   
  
He licks and kisses Fjord’s throat, tastes the sea-salt sweat of him. He slides his hands over variegated green skin, and shivers as Fjord measures scars with his palms, a low-deep groan floating out of his chest. It buzzes over Molly’s skin, and he rolls around in it.   
  
He seeks and offers pleasure, and they fall asleep together, limbs entangled, Molly resting over Fjord’s chest, counting the beats of his heart. His tail winds around Fjord’s thigh, the thing has a mind of its own.   
  
Maybe it remembers the past Molly doesn’t care to know.   
  
Fjord dreams rarely.   
  
Molly dreams often.   
  
Fjord wakes him once, from a dream that tastes like blood, and Molly’s not himself when he rakes his talons across Fjord’s shoulder and scrambles away from him, hissing like his supposed devilish heritage. Fear flashes in Fjord’s eyes before it’s gone, but that it was there at all fills Molly with guilt.   
  
He apologizes.   
  
Fjord tells him not to worry about it. He makes a joke about choking on seawater, mouth turned into a wry grin. He opens his arms to welcome Molly back into them, and Molly can’t bring himself to do it.   
  
He throws on his coat, shoves his feet into Fjord’s boots because he doesn’t want to take the time to wriggle into his own, and he leaves their shared room. Fjord doesn’t give chase.   
  
Molly still tastes blood.   
  
He goes downstairs, he debates a drink, and then he tumbles out into a frigid evening, his breath puffing a gray mist into the air. He stares at a cloudy night sky and thinks that it figures, a night like this, he can’t see the stars.   
  
He thinks about a past he can’t remember and a past he doesn’t want to remember. He thinks about the future being the only one that matters. He thinks about guilt and how he’s sure the person he was isn’t someone worth knowing, how he’s trying to be better than the fractured memories, making up for the misdeeds of a man he isn’t anymore.   
  
Fjord’s blood glitters on the tips of his talons. He stares at it for longer than makes sense before he trudges back into the inn. He goes upstairs, and he lingers outside his own room, staring at the door. He craves a cigarette, even though he doesn’t smoke, but maybe that’s the him he used to be who wants the taste of tobacco so badly.   
  
He stops being a coward, and he goes inside, tail twitching behind him, betraying the turmoil of emotions brewing in his belly. Part of him hopes Fjord’s gone to sleep without Molly, twisted around in the blankets, leaving Molly no choice but to throw himself into the other bed and sleep alone. The better choice.   
  
Darkvision proves him wrong. Fjord’s awake, sitting up on the bed, picking at his cuticles. The room carries the faintest tang of blood. Molly wishes, sometimes, he weren’t so intimately familiar with the odor.   
  
“You all right?” he asks.   
  
Molly opens his mouth to answer, and Fjord snorts.   
  
“Never mind. That’s a dumb question.” The bed creaks as he shifts on it. “Wanna talk about it?”   
  
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Molly says, and it’s not even a lie. There’s nothing to say because there’s nothing he actively remembers.   
  
He toes out of Fjord’s boots, lets his coat slide off his shoulders. He climbs back into bed with Fjord, pressing his chilled skin to Fjord’s warmth, and laughs as Fjord gives a quiet yelp.   
  
“You’re fucking freezing,” he says.   
  
“It’s cold outside.” Molly climbs into his lap, wraps his legs around Fjord’s waist, nestles against him, the thin blanket all that separates them. “Maybe you should do something about it, hm?” He grins and mouths the line of Fjord’s jaw.   
  
Big, warm hands ghost up his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Maybe Molly’s deflecting. Maybe he really doesn’t want to think about it.   
  
Maybe tomorrow or the next day, Fjord will wake up with seawater on his lips, and he won’t want to talk about it either. They all have things that scare them.   
  
“Warm you up? I can do that.”   
  
Fjord kisses him, and Molly leans into it, a purr rising in his throat. He winds his arms around Fjord’s neck and licks into his mouth, erasing the taste of blood with the taste of their cheap ale and cheaper dinner and a flavor Molly can only describe as Fjord.   
  
He lets hands and skin chase away the echoes of a life he doesn’t want to remember. He rocks and ruts against Fjord, their cocks sliding together with slippery friction. He chuckles when Fjord accidentally tears the blanket with a talon, and gasps when he finally spills against Fjord’s belly, and Fjord joins him a few moments after with a hot splash.   
  
Their kiss softens to something tender and comforting. Molly hums a playful tune into it, and Fjord’s the one who hooks a rag from his travel pack to wipe them clean. It’s stiff from their activities earlier, and beyond saving at this point, Molly thinks.   
  
They curl up under the blanket, Molly’s head on Fjord’s chest, listening to the thump-thump-thump of Fjord’s heart, his tail firmly wrapped around a meaty half-orc thigh. He brushes his palm over the cuts on Fjord’s shoulder, already dried and healing. They won’t scar.   
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Fjord rumbles.   
  
Molly wonders if his refusal to explore his past will get his friends killed someday. Or if he’ll be the one doing the killing. Maybe it’s better he walks away now.   
  
That’s the problem with caring. It means he has something to protect. Something to lose.   
  
“Next time, it might be your throat,” Molly says, before he can stop himself.   
  
“We’ll see. I’m pretty sturdy,” Fjord says, like an idiot. They are all of them idiots. Maybe it’s why they get along so well.   
  
Molly snorts and lapses into silence. He runs the pad of his finger over the cuts, traces the raised ridge of the welts, seeking dampness. He finds none.   
  
“Go to sleep, Molly,” Fjord says. “We’ve got to hunt a monster tomorrow.”   
  
Fjord doesn’t say ‘sweet dreams’. He knows better. They both do.   
  
Molly doesn’t say ‘thank you’ even though he ought. He’s kept Fjord’s secrets, he’s heard Fjord’s stories, he’s helped him fumble through understanding his falchion.   
  
It’s an even trade.   
  
Molly sleeps.   
  
This time, he doesn’t dream.   
  


***


End file.
